


Letting Go

by BornBlue



Series: Ron & Hermione's 1st time [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, but be warned it's explicit and depicts them losing their virginity, they are 18 in this story so not technically underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 16:23:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14048187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BornBlue/pseuds/BornBlue
Summary: Ron needs to escape from the sadness of the Burrow. As Hermione takes him to the quiet of her home, they will find that they can let go of their grief and find some hope for the future.My imagining of their first time making love, in two companion pieces. This one is told from Ron’s POV.





	Letting Go

When he woke that morning—at least, he _thought_ he was awake—the sky was still dark and he felt a gentle nudge to his shoulder. A voice whispered in his ear, “Oi, Ron!” One of the twins, probably up to no good. Whether Fred or George, he couldn’t be sure. “Get George to talk today. The git's gonna need you.” In a split second, Ron bolted up, looking for the source of the whisper and remembering that it couldn’t be Fred. There never would be Fred again. He must've been dreaming, but how vivid and jarring it was.

 

When Ron rubbed his eyes, he saw a deep orange glow in the sky outside. The sun was coming up. This was a sight he’d rarely seen upon waking; he liked his sleep and usually slept long and heavily if he could. Maybe if the night had kept them up—like that terrible night at Malfoy Manor, or during the deadly battle at Hogwarts—he might be awake for the dawn. Fact is, though, he couldn’t remember noticing the sunrise on either of those recent mornings.

 

Harry slept on the cot nearby. Ron wanted him to sleep, and sleep soundly; maybe it was the first time in his life he was able to truly rest without trouble. He was still shouldering responsibilities beyond his 17 years, what with helping Tonks’ mum care for Teddy and make memorial arrangements for Tonks and Lupin. But now he had Ginny to help him through. For the first time, Ron was truly happy about their relationship. Of course, he didn't like to think about what they might _do_ together (she was still his sister, after all), but if they married, Harry would be his brother for real.

 

Immediately, Ron felt a strong rush of guilt, as if he'd willed Harry to replace Fred. The sorrow and pain of these days had begun descending on him like a cold, wet fog.

 

He couldn't say how long he sat up in bed, but by the time he noticed his surroundings again, the sky was a light blue dotted with clouds. He felt restless. As quietly as he could, he got out of bed and slipped on the jeans crumpled on the floor nearby. He knew he should shower and change his briefs, but he just didn't have the energy to do it. He grabbed a shirt lying on a pile of clothes next to the dresser and pulled it on, quietly slipping out the door as he grabbed his trainers, yesterday's socks still stuffed inside.

 

He must have been walking down the stairs without realizing it, because there he was outside Ginny's door. Hermione was in there. A sudden warmth surged through his chest as he thought of her, and images flooded his mind: of her hitting him in his wet shirt when he returned to the tent, of her lying motionless beneath the chandelier at Malfoy Manor, of the look in her eyes and the feel of her lips as she flung herself into Ron's arms to kiss him.

 

Was she awake? Could she feel him waiting outside the door? He reached for the knob before thinking better of it. Instead, he rested his palm gently on the door. Its wood was old and worn in the best possible way: time and use had made it smooth and comfortable. It felt like home in the same way _she_ felt like home.

 

He put on his shoes and leaned on the wall by the door, waiting. It seemed like mere moments before Ginny’s door creaked open and Hermione stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind her. She stopped when she saw him and smiled a small, tentative smile.

 

Though he’d been waiting there for her, seeing her sent a jolt through him. She radiated something he lacked, something he needed. He wanted to grab her, hold onto her, let her melt the frost around and inside him. But as much as he wanted this, he feared it, too. There was so much in him right now and he understood none of it. It might overtake him, drown him, and Hermione with him. He had to be strong and hold onto himself, if only for her sake. Now was not the time to let go.

 

Before he could think of what to say, he was already whispering quietly, “I need to get out of here. Hermione, would you take me to your house?”

 

He thought she was opening her mouth to answer, but then she stopped and just looked at him tenderly for a moment before saying, “If you’d really like to see it, sure.”

 

As he felt the smoothness of her arm with his fingers, they Apparated on the spot.

 

 

 

 

Hermione’s house was quiet. He let the silence wash over him as they stood in her kitchen. This is where she had grown up, not knowing what was waiting for her and who she really was.

 

Ron looked around, trying to take it in. He couldn’t imagine his mother’s kitchen ever looking this orderly and sleek. It struck him how different their childhoods must have been: she an only child and Ron surrounded by siblings; her parents with good jobs and financial security, while his family scraped to make ends meet; her Muggle world and his magical one.

 

He followed her through the hall and into the living room, so unlike his own.The walls were covered in photos, artwork, and shelves of souvenirs from the Grangers’ travels. They looked silently, Ron amazed at the static images. Their stillness made the house seem even more quiet and private. The pictures with Hermione, so immobile inside the frames, seemed especially odd. They lacked her energy and vigor—the essence of Hermione was simply absent from them. Absent….

 

He thought of Fred and the others who had died. Absent, now and always. No, he had to be strong for Hermione, so he pushed the thought from his mind and concentrated on the wall. Absent... like she was now to her parents. He hadn’t been there the day she erased their memories. Standing here now, he wondered where she’d done it.

“When did you put these back up?”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“I thought you took them down so your parents wouldn’t see them after you… you know… wiped their memories….”

 

“Right. I did, but I came back after they left for the airport. I couldn’t stand to leave it as though we’d never lived here.”

 

“Or like you’d never existed.” Strange to wipe out your own childhood; he suddenly felt how really hard it must have been for her. No one else now remembered her from those pre-Hogwarts days. He gazed at a picture of her, probably taken a few years before Dumbledore’s letter came and changed her life. She was sitting on a bench, looking up from her book (of course!); had the picture moved, he could tell her legs would be swinging. The wind must have been strong, as it blew her hair into wild strands and ringlets and she had one hand across her skirt, appearing to hold it down. She was laughing at the camera, perhaps telling her father not to take her picture just then, and her mouth showed very white, prominent front teeth. “You were cute back then.”

 

“As opposed to now, you mean?”

 

Ron glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Didn’t she know how beautiful she was? Didn’t she know yet that he thought so? He said, simply, “No,” and continued around the room, trying in vain to take in all he saw.

 

His attention wandered back to the hall and more pictures lining the staircase. Hermione was in every one. It was like a gallery of her life and she was letting him see it; it was a part of her no one they knew—not even Harry, close as he was to them both—had gotten to see. He felt privy to something sacred, as though she had given him the key to her diary and allowed only him to peruse it.

 

As he climbed the stairs, he was struck by a large, posed photo of her that must’ve been taken sometime around their sixth year at Hogwarts. She was so beautiful it nearly knocked the breath out of him. This picture wasn’t magical either, yet without moving it managed to somehow seem alive. Quite uncharacteristically, he noticed that the frame hung crooked on the wall, and he simply couldn’t let it go. Reaching out, he straightened it lovingly, taking another moment just to gaze at those beautiful eyes. It seemed they were looking directly at him.

 

New pictures kept catching his eye, and they lead him further along the stairs. He felt he was absorbing her life with each step, each image imprinting itself on his heart. Any speck of dust, any crooked frame, seemed a disrespect that he was compelled to challenge. As he looked at each photo in turn, he found himself wiping away dust or straightening the picture closer to a perfection befitting its subject. It was true Hermione could drive him crazy, but she _was_ pretty much perfect—there was no way around it. What she saw in _him_ he still couldn’t guess.

 

As he drew his sleeve away from wiping the dust off the last picture on the stairs, his eye rested on an open bedroom door, and he somehow knew it was hers. He approached, seeing a beam of light shining through the window, falling across the wall toward the tidy twin bed. _Her_ bed. Where she had slept all those years, where she had dreamed… of him? He could only hope, but felt no certainty of that.

 

As he stood there pondering her dreams, his eye was drawn to a poster on the wall: Viktor Krum. That prat. And not just a generic poster, but a signed one: “With love to Hermione. Yours, Viktor.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione following him through the door and he was pricked with that old jealousy that told him he would never be good enough for her.

 

“Still pining for Vicky, I see.”

 

His eyes were hard as he turned to her, but he couldn’t read the expression on her face. She almost looked as if she would burst into tears, but no—maybe it was prelude to a self-righteous rant. He braced himself for whatever was about to happen; an argument might be just the thing right now to vent all these emotions he couldn’t untangle. But instead of speaking, Hermione simply raised her hand, pointing to the table by her bed. As he walked over to look at it, he saw her drop heavily to sit on the bed with her head in her hands. And then he saw what was on the table: framed pictures, filling the small tabletop, and Ron in every single one. They went back to their first year at Hogwarts, up through their sixth and final year there. Some were with Harry or Neville or other friends from school, but most of them were just Ron and Hermione together, or even just Ron alone. No one else appeared there in a photo by themselves, and he suddenly felt overwhelmed thinking that perhaps he _had_ appeared in her dreams after all. Curiosity took him over; when did she start feeling this way?

 

“How long have these been here?”

 

“Years, I suppose,” her voice sounded strained and quiet. “I kept adding ones as we got older.”

 

Ron’s face flushed with shame as he realized how he had hurt her,  _again._ Always hurting her. He was such a damned fool. He had the sudden urge to run away and hide, but instead found himself sitting close to her on the bed and fidgeting with uncertainty of what to do or say.

 

“I’m sorry, Hermione. I didn’t mean to….”

 

He couldn’t look at her; he felt too ashamed. As she pulled her face from her hands and looked him, he could feel hot tears pricking at his eyes. But he hadn’t cried in front of her yet—at least, not out of the company of his whole crying family—and he was afraid of what she might think of him. Eyes averted, he took shallow breaths in an attempt to calm himself.

 

“Why do we always do this?” she said. “Why do we talk too much and keep missing each other?”

 

There was something so raw and clear in her lament. The word “we” struck him especially hard—so there was a “we?”

 

Without thinking, he reached out and grabbed her hand as a drowning man might grab at a buoy. He needed to know more urgently than he’d ever needed anything: “So you really meant it, when you kissed me?”

 

His eyes were fixed intently on her; he couldn’t take them away until he knew. Perhaps he was afraid she might disappear and never return to him if he glanced away for even a fraction of a second.

 

It took her a moment—a long, agonizing moment—to answer. “Of course, you prat. Don’t you know by know?”

 

It was as if she’d unleashed a tidal wave in his chest, and his body began to move faster than his mind could think. He was all instinct, acting with the desire to seal this moment, to tell her in a way he couldn’t with words just how much she meant to him, how much he needed her by his side. He circled her waist with his right arm, pulling her closer and holding her face gently in his other hand. He needed to see it in her eyes to know it was true, that she was really his, that he wasn’t unworthy and unlovable. Her arms were circling his neck as he stared into those eyes, searching for something he couldn’t quite name. He wanted to speak, to say something, but words wouldn’t come, so instead he pulled her toward him and kissed her with an intensity he’d never expressed before.

 

He could feel her shifting toward him, cradling his neck in her hands. As he felt the warmth and softness of her lips, he could feel her fingers in his hair as her tongue eased his lips open. This was new—tongues dancing, alive. His hands moved unbidden—first they were feeling the soft skin of her neck, then tracing her delicate collarbone, sliding along her back, feeling the sharp edges of her shoulder blades. How could he feel so soothed yet so electrified, all at once?

 

Soothed.

 

And suddenly the reasons he needed soothing came flooding into his head and tears began streaming down his cheeks. It was wrong, it was all wrong to be here, feeling such happiness. He felt guilty and dirty and small, and he practically tore himself away to the window, needing to be reminded of the world outside and all the terrible events he hadn’t escaped until now. But the world outside was overwhelming and he could barely stand to see it. He doubled over, sobbing and panting. He didn’t want her to see him this way, but he couldn’t stop. It was all too much.

 

The room was silent, eerily so. Was she even there? Had he scared her away? Was he alone? As he struggled to pull himself upright, he glimpsed her still seated at the edge of the bed, and couldn’t decide whether he was grateful or not. He turned his head away a little, wiping his eyes quickly with the back of his hand. It seemed to be all he could do to stand up without falling over. He didn’t know what to do next—how to explain his outburst or his feelings of guilt. Finally, he faced her and spoke.

 

“This isn’t right. I’m bleedin’ selfish. To have you here and forget about him.” He turned back and looked out the window, this time steadying himself on the sill. He couldn’t look at her; she reminded him of how happy he could still be and it didn’t seem right somehow.

 

“Life goes on, Ron.”

 

Those words touched on his deepest confusion and he blurted out, “Not for Fred! Not for Lupin or Tonks or that little prat, Creevey! Remember him, with his stupid camera second year?” He was half-laughing now, and crying, too. “The git survived the basilisk, petrified for months, just to have some bloody Death Eater smack him into permanent oblivion a few years later! And Fred! One minute there, the next…. How does life go on after this? How will it ever go on?”

 

Hermione was silent for a moment, as he leaned his forehead on the glass. He suddenly wished desperately that he could just go to sleep.

 

“I don’t know, Ron. Really, I don’t. And I can’t look this up in the library.” He couldn’t help but smile a bit at that one. It was the trait that had so annoyed him yet so often saved Harry and him from almost certain death. “I just know that it will. I know people endure horrible losses and survive. And I’ve heard that in time they adjust. Bit by bit, things get back to normal.”

 

“Yeah, well, it’ll never be normal for Fred again, will it? He’s done. It’s over for him, and when we get on with it we’ll just be leaving him behind. How’s that right?” Ron simply couldn’t let go of the sense that his own life continuing would somehow betray Fred.

 

The tension between them was palpable, and both remained silent for a moment before he heard Hermione speak in a soft and tender voice, “Why did you want me to bring you here?”

Something in her voice reached beyond his pain. He felt like he was waking from a stupor. He owed her the truth—he wanted to give it to her—but he wasn’t sure what it was anymore. “It was the only place I could think of where we could be alone,” he stammered. “I just couldn’t stand being in that house any longer with all those people and all that….” He gestured vaguely with his hand then stood staring out the window again. There just wasn’t language for any of it.

 

“Did you want to be alone by yourself or alone with me?”

 

“I don’t know. I didn’t really think of it like one or the other? I guess I just wanted a little peace and quiet and some room to move without landing on top of people everywhere I turn. Some place I wouldn’t have to make small talk with anyone or pretend I wasn’t… feeling….”

 

“So my presence is just incidental?”

As if a switch was flipped, he suddenly felt judged and misunderstood. “No!” He banged his fist on the sill. “Don’t twist it up! It had to be with you. It always has to be. I don’t know where I’d be if….” He couldn’t go on, overcome as he was with tears he tried in vain to hide. They were rolling down his cheeks again as he thought of how hopeless his life would be without her yet how wrong it was that he should be so blessed as their friends and his brother lay dead.

 

He heard Hermione rise from the bed; then her footsteps were approaching. As her arms gently circled his shoulders, she rested her head on the back of his neck. Quietly, she said, “I’m sorry, Ron. For everything. I’m just so sorry.”

 

He could feel tears on his neck, and there was strange comfort in knowing that she was crying with him now—that they were somehow in this together.

 

They stood there for what seemed like hours, cars driving by every now and then in the street below. Life was continuing, and he couldn’t understand how. Those Muggles in the street knew nothing of the battles, the deaths, the peril that even they had been in. How was that possible? And how could all those people have died, but the rest of them were meant to go on? Would it mean ignoring what had happened? Forgetting about all of them? He just couldn’t see the future, especially if it meant letting go of the past and leaving Fred and all those friends behind.

 

He became aware again of Hermione’s arms around his shoulders and her tears drying on the back of his neck. Had he treated her unfairly? He needed her to understand. He straightened himself, pulling his shoulders up to their regular height as she lifted herself off of him. Next thing he knew, she was handing him a box of tissues. He was grateful to wipe his eyes and nose before turning to face her again. “You’ve been wonderful, you know. I couldn’t have asked…” And that was all he could get out before his voice cracked slightly, trailing off.

 

“There’s nowhere else I’d be, Ron. Maybe it isn’t good to rely on you so much. I just don’t know where else I’d be, where else I’d even _want_ to be.” He was still stunned to know that she chose him, of all people. “I know Fred’s gone and it’s not fair, and I’ll wait with you until you feel right about living your life again. I just want… just to see a future and I only see one with you. I want to feel alive after all this terrible year. Sometimes I can’t believe it’s over. It still feels like we’re living in limbo and I want to get on with it and feel my life again. I don’t know how to feel it without you, that’s all.”

 

She was standing so close to him that he could feel the heat of her body, and his was practically buzzing with the keen awareness of her proximity. He watched transfixed as she lifted a hand and brought her palm up to face his shoulder—not touching him, but feeling thin air with fingers that were taut and purposeful. He couldn’t quite make out what she was doing, but remained quiet as though he were the subject of a sacred ritual he mustn’t disrupt. He continued watching in silence as her hand moved ever so slowly toward his chest. It felt like she was touching him even before her fingertips made contact with his shirt. Her touch was so gentle, but he felt a force of undeniable strength behind it. As she looked up to his face, he met her gaze. His heart was pounding beneath her palm.

 

 

He was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to feel Hermione’s heartbeat, too, so he gently placed his fingers over her heart, his palm following. He was careful not to settle too close to her breast; he didn’t feel he had earned that right.

 

As his hand rested on her chest, he began to feel a sensation between them. The heat wasn’t just coming off of _her_ , but him, too. They seemed to form a circle of energy that flowed between them with no discernable source—no beginning and certainly no end. It was rushing through their hands and arms, but spreading to chests, necks, legs. It was such a heady sensation, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Her free hand came to rest on his neck, his pulsing artery beneath, and he could feel her hair brush his face as she leaned across to kiss him there.

 

Their hands remained on each other’s hearts as she kissed his neck, and he found his other hand was now in her hair, caressing her curls, stroking the nape of her neck, her ear, her cheek, her eyebrow. His other hand remained frozen in place, as though he required permission to move a single muscle of it. As Hermione lifted her head, she looked into his eyes and brought her hand over his, drawing it gently downward and leaving his fingertips to rest on the rise of her breast. Putting her hands around his neck, she pulled herself close to him and found his mouth with hers. That was all he needed to bring his hand back to life, and he cupped the mound of her breast with his palm. She was so smooth, and he could feel the heat from his hand begin to spread to his arm and into his face. He was thinking how flushed he must look when his thumb brushed across a taut nipple. It was as though he had touched a live electrical wire. His breath caught in his throat as he returned to touch her there again, this time with intention as he lingered and gently rolled the nipple between his fingers. They were kissing each other harder now, and Ron was lost in the feel of her lips, her tongue, her breast, her hair.

 

And then, without warning or any conscious decision, they were moving back toward her bed. Was it him? He didn’t want to take advantage, but as they reached the edge, she climbed onto it with a look of—what? Yes, that was a look of hunger in her eyes. He towered above her just then, caught in the midst of kneeling over her while his other foot was still on the floor. He wanted his body to be pressed to hers, but he wanted to see her, too—all of her. Hermione made the decision for him when she sat up higher and drew her mouth to his. He felt himself melting onto her as her body rose to meet his, and each of his hands found a breast to fondle and explore.

 

As he began kissing her neck, he heard the most unexpected sound emanate from her throat—something between a sigh of contentment and the growl of a wild animal. He pulled away slightly to look at her face, perhaps making sure it was still Hermione there with him, because that was a sound he never imagined her capable of. She laughed softly as their eyes met, looking as if she had surprised herself, too. Ron couldn’t help but chuckle at this delightful twist in her character, this most unguarded, un-Hermione-like moment of passionate abandon; how many more surprises would she bring? And with that, she was throwing her arms around his neck, pulling him back to her—and still laughing as she bit him gently on the lip. He found that he was still laughing, too, feeling sheer delight for the first time in… how long? Weeks or months or years? The carefree joy was so unfamiliar to him now, so he soaked it up as if he were a dry sponge and he let it fill his heart. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as their lips met again; with her eyes closed so near his, he could see how long her lashes were, how they gently brushed her face. The next moment, her eyes opened and she looked right into his. He saw in her a recognition and a satisfaction and an unreserved desire. For him.

 

For him.

 

How was he so lucky?

 

As they continued kissing, he kept caressing her breasts. They were so soft and round but for those hard nipples. He marveled at the contrast and knew he had to feel her skin, he had to reach beneath the cloth separating them; he wanted there to be nothing between them now. His hands found the bottom of her untucked t-shirt, and he slipped beneath, first making contact with the smooth skin of her stomach. (Was that a shiver he felt?) He drew his hands further up in long strokes, finally reaching her bra and feeling those enticing nipples through its thin fabric. For a moment he thought he had gone too far too fast, for she was lifting herself up and in the process pushing him back a bit. But instead of pushing him further away, she stopped and pulled the t-shirt over her head, letting it fall from her hands to the floor. He sat back a bit more to take in the sight, the beauty of her. Those beautiful, graceful curves of her breast beneath the sheer fabric of her bra—god, she was perfect! He knew in that moment that she had never looked at anyone the way she was looking at him, that she never would have revealed herself so fully to anyone else, not even Viktor. As he raised his eyes to look into hers, it similarly occurred to him that only _she_ could make him feel this way. Only _she_ was so perfect, made for him and only him. He felt as if his heart might explode at any moment.

 

“You’re beautiful.”

 

She blushed and giggled a bit as she dropped her eyes from his, but he just kept looking at her until she met his gaze again. There was so much he wanted to say, but no words that could say it. He just kept looking at her, filled with desire and love—yes, love. And hope. Somehow, she filled him with hope. He watched as she lifted herself up again and unhooked the back of her bra, slipping the straps slowly off her shoulders. He was feeling lightheaded, hardly able to believe what was happening. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, and he had to hold himself up on the bed or he might have collapsed onto her right then. He felt almost as if he had to hold his breath to keep the moment from disappearing altogether, as though it were some delicate dream from which he might wake at any moment. His eyes moved from one shoulder to the other and then down her arms in turn as she slipped the straps down, and then all he could focus on were her breasts as she slid the bra off of them completely and let it fall to the side. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath for seeing those perfect breasts revealed to him and only him. She made his heart, his head, every part of him practically sing with passion for her.

 

It was all he could do to drop his head to her chest, cupping one bare breast with his hand and brushing his thumb along the nipple as he slipped his other hand behind her back and began kissing her other breast. He had imagined how she might feel, but he hadn’t ever guessed how it would make _him_ feel. Periodically, as he tasted her skin, his cheek brushed against her nipple, and he could no longer resist the desire to taste it, too. He kissed it lightly before brushing it with his tongue. He was intoxicated with the feel of her, from the soft skin of her breast to the determined erectness of that dark pink at its peak. He slipped both arms behind her back and held her tightly as he looked back into her eyes with a deeper longing than he’d ever known. Then, dropping his head to her chest, his mouth moved to her other breast, kissing it all over, tasting her skin with his tongue, lingering above her other nipple before licking it, too.

 

As he pulled himself up to look at her face again, he could feel her hands on his shirt hem. Before he could think to be self-conscious, she had already slipped it up and over his head, and her fingers were tracing his biceps before squeezing them firmly with her hands. He couldn’t tell if he was blushing, so he just banished the question from his mind and resumed focusing on her—stroking her neck and arms, feeling the roundness of her breasts and the curve of her hips. At the same time, he could feel her hands moving across his chest and down his stomach, but it all blended together—his touch and hers, his skin tingling beneath her hands—or was hers tingling beneath his? As though they had choreographed it, they landed at the same moment at the button of the other’s jeans. He quickly looked in her eyes, a bit amused at the coincidence. She laughed.

 

“Is this alright with you?” he asked breathlessly.

 

“Oh, yes,” she breathed quietly, “but what’s say we make it easier?”

 

She prodded him to his feet and stood in front of him, slowly undoing the button of her jeans and pulling down the zipper. Her hands rested at the waistband as she paused and looked up at him. He got the clue and followed suit. Then, at the same moment, they slipped their jeans down. Hermione gingerly stepped out of hers as Ron threw his off to the side with his foot.

 

They were standing an arm’s width apart, looking at each other. Neither one wore anything special for the occasion—they hadn’t even known there would _be_ an occasion—but Hermione looked so sexy in her simple white knickers. He could feel his cheeks flush, unsure whether it was heat from his desire or embarrassment over the shabby state of his own undergarments. He had always wished his mother would buy them new ones more frequently, but as it was, Ron had been wearing the same batch for what seemed like an eternity. They had once been white but were now something other than that—a bit grey, a bit dirty looking—and he really should have been in a larger size by now. Of course, who had time to worry about something so mundane when running from Death Eaters and chasing down horcruxes? It hadn’t really crossed his mind until this moment.

 

But no sooner had he begun to regret neglecting a wardrobe update than he felt her fingers make contact, sending another electric jolt through him. He gasped a bit as her hand moved slowly and, without thinking, could feel himself grab at her hips and begin pulling at the top of her knickers with his thumbs. She was filling him with desire he’d never imagined, and he was completely losing himself in the sensations of his body.

 

And then, just as suddenly, he was struck by the realization of their situation and the fact that spells wouldn’t be of much protection here. He pulled away from her quickly before he could completely lose himself in his delirium.

 

“Shite, Hermione! We can’t do this now!”

 

Clearly, that was the wrong approach, for he could see her practically deflate before his eyes. Her arms dropped suddenly and nervously to her sides, while her eyes fixed onto the floor. Trying to repair the situation, he took a step toward her and put his hands on her shoulders rather awkwardly. “You know I want to, right? But I…I’m not prepared.”

 

She looked up at him blankly.

 

He tried again. “Um, I don’t have a, you know, a… a raincoat.”

 

A lightbulb appeared to go off in her head as she lit up and exclaimed animatedly, “Oh, that! I hadn’t even thought of it. Oh….” Suddenly, she bolted for the bedroom door, running out as she shouted, “Hold on. Don’t go away!”

 

“Not bleedin’ likely,” he called after her. Really?! Where was he going to go in his condition?

 

He stood there for an awkward few moments, wondering whether he should get dressed. But of course, she had run from the room in just her knickers, so he couldn’t cover up and make her feel even more self-conscious now. That would be such a Ron move, and he really didn’t want to mess things up. He stood in place, willing himself not to feel embarrassed, until she burst back through the door, triumphantly raising a packaged condom in her hand.

 

Good grief, how did she _always_ manage to get them out of tricky situations?! Still in a state of shock, he asked, “Where’d that come from?”

 

“My parents’ room, but I really don’t want to think about that.” She made a face. “Anyway, here it is. I’m good under pressure, eh?”

 

“You’re good anytime.” And he meant it, truly. He couldn’t embrace her again quickly enough, and as he moved to kiss her once more, he could feel his hardness against her. Suddenly it felt as if she were everywhere around him, wrapping him in waves of intense pleasure—her stomach against his, her breasts and those hardened nipples pressed and heaving at his chest. He was rubbing against her and tightly wrapping his arms around her back and hips as he caressed her up and down. He felt the smooth skin of her hips and arse as both hands slipped beneath the back waistband of her knickers. He heard a moan escape her lips, and this time it didn’t amuse or surprise him—just made him feel harder and more eager to feel _all_ of her. She stepped back, and he took the cue to slide his hands around to her hips and slowly lower her knickers, looking back in her eyes to be sure it was okay. Seeing the desire there (the encouragement, in fact), he continued pulling them down as he dropped to kneel before her. As she stepped out of them, he slid his hands gently up the sides of her legs until they were resting on her hips. He drank in the sight of her—how the hair between her legs matched the unruly dark hair on her head, how her body could appear to be so comforting with its soft, inviting curves, even as it seemed to vibrate with a submerged yet vigorous energy. He moved his face toward the warmth of her belly and rested there for a moment, as one hand moved gently—almost of its own accord—toward her public hair. He stroked it and twirled it around his fingers, and suddenly felt moisture beneath. That seemed to unleash a whole new, overwhelming need. He sat back on his heels for a moment, just taking in the sight of her as he continued feeling that hair and the wetness spreading between her legs. Before he realized it, he was leaning forward to kiss her there and sliding his hand right between her legs. She gasped. He could feel her tighten a bit as he reached the source of the moisture and guided his finger where he could enter her. He paused for a split second until he felt her relax, and then gently slid his fingers inside. She was so warm and wet—there was no friction there. He was gliding as if running his hand across the smoothest weave of silk. “Hermione…” he murmured her name so softly as he felt her grabbing his hair and tightening her torso with excitement. He felt her knees might buckle, and so he held her back tightly with his other hand to keep her from collapsing in a heap of nerve endings and ecstasy.

 

“Ron,” she whispered breathlessly, “Make love to me, right now. I can’t wait any longer.”

 

That was all he needed to hear. He rocked back on his heels breathlessly, and guided her hips to the edge of the bed until she sat in front of him. He knew he might mess everything up if he stopped to think, so he stood before he could question himself and slipped his own underpants down his legs. He stood naked before her, penis erect and even larger than he’d ever seen it in the times he’d spent alone, imagining scenarios that were merely pale precursors to this moment. She ripped open the condom package and handed it to him quickly. As he prepared it to put on, she started touching his cock, tracing the rib of a vein running its length. He suddenly couldn’t think who he was or what he was doing.

 

“Hermione, you’ll have to stop that,” he murmured, his head lolling backward before she moved her hand away and he could again focus on unrolling the condom and slipping it into place.

 

When he had finished, she was lying back on the bed, legs spread a bit. He moved his hands up her thighs and paused for a moment, looking at the folds of wet, pink skin under the hair between her legs. As he moved to kneel over her, he positioned his hands to either side and looked intently into her eyes. He needed to be sure she understood him; of all things, he certainly didn’t want her to miss his meaning right now.

 

“Hermione, you do know I love you, yeah?”

 

He could see her eyes soften and glow. “I know it. I love you, too, Ron. I can’t remember what it was like not to.”

 

And then his hand was guiding his penis into her; he could feel her quiver as he began sliding in. He’d never felt anything like this before: she was all around him, she was everything that could exist at this moment. He lowered the weight of his body onto hers and was kissing wherever his mouth could reach—her shoulders, her neck, her hair, her cheeks, her lips. He had entered deeply into her when he heard her gasp and tighten up a bit. He froze in fear and pushed himself up to look at her. He asked in alarm, “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

 

“I guess a little,” she said, and he started to move as if to pull out before Hermione stopped him. “No! Stay! Just slow down, alright?” He was uncertain what to do. He really did _not_ want to screw it up this time.

 

“Ronald, please, I need you.”

 

He supposed he needed to trust her words, so he kept watching her eyes to be sure they didn’t contradict what she said. He was going deeper again, but easing his way in more slowly, all the while watching to be sure it was okay. She seemed to relax a bit as he heard a low, laughing breath escape her lips. She looked—what was it? content? ecstatic? He wasn’t sure, but it seemed to be good. In his delight, he kissed her again suddenly, darting his tongue in and out of her mouth as he began slowly rocking his hips back and forth. He was overcome with sensation now, and his mind couldn’t keep up, he couldn’t put language to anything anymore, so he just let it all go, picking up speed, sliding in and then almost (but never quite) out until suddenly she wrapped her legs around his back and was squeezing his cock from inside and he never could have imagined what _that_ would have felt like and….

 

“Bloody hell… Hermione….”

 

He could hear her voice moaning and his own cries in short bursts, but there were no words anymore—just sounds, visceral and impulsive. They were all skin and sweat and kisses and tongues and desire binding them together. He couldn’t even tell anymore where he ended and she began; just that he was gripping her as tightly as he’d ever held onto anyone or anything and he was kissing her and he never wanted to stop and he could feel her hands caressing his arms and his back, her fingernails were pressing into him at various spots but it didn’t hurt—it was just more sensation and it all felt like it was pushing him somewhere he needed to go. Every muscle in his body felt alive as he held himself above her and they moved together, faster and faster, her legs and hips thrusting toward him even as he thrust toward her, her hands grabbing at his bum and pulling him in ever more insistently. He almost couldn’t bear feeling this much all at once, but he couldn’t stop until suddenly everything was exploding in a cloud of bright lights and ecstatic cries and a vortex of vibration, the force of which found them rolling over as warm liquid shot through him. He could feel her—or himself?—convulse in one final spasm as she collapsed onto him and his arms fell limply to his sides.

 

 

They lay there for an indeterminate length of time, as his breaths continued to come heavily and fast.

 

“Merlin’s beard,” Ron gasped. “Who knew _that_ was in there, Hermione?” He tucked an arm under his head as the world around them began to re-emerge, and he smiled at her as she lifted her eyes to his. “Didn’t look _that_ up in the library, did you?”

 

She shook her head, and he could see her eyes shining, just as he felt his must be, too. “I didn’t know that was there, either. I don’t think it was there without you.” His heart felt full as he stroked her hair and wiped the sweat from her brow.

 

She looked straight into his eyes as her words tumbled out, “Ronald Weasley, I love you. It feels so good to say that. Like there _is_ a future, after all.”

 

And as wonderful as that made him feel, the reality of their lives beyond this moment flooded back in, filling him with a confusing mix of both joy and overwhelming sadness. He felt a single tear slide from one eye and down the side of his face. But he didn’t let go of her. He stayed where he was, touching her and remaining inside her. He would try very hard not to pull away again.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t mean to remind you. Especially right now.” She dropped down to lay across his chest, nestling her face into the crook of his neck.

 

All the missteps of their relationship felt so far in the past; as if nothing could ever be wrong between them again. It made him feel hopeful—even _worthy_ of a future, if they could have it together.

 

“It’s alright.” He chuckled quietly and truly meant it when he said, “I guess I can hold on for a future if I have more of _that_ to look forward to.”

 

But it was all pressing in on him again. He sighed. “Everything is so different now. Most of it sucks. But you and me is different, too… I mean us, together, right? That’s brilliant. I screwed up so much and thought I’d never make it up and get with you, but it’s like all this crap made us two clearer, you know?”

 

“Yes. We see what’s important now.”

 

“Well, yeah, but it’s also like… like I’d be drowning without you. I’d just be drowning in all the sadness. I keep thinking about the Malfoy’s and hearing you up there screaming, thinking you were dying. I’ve never felt that awful in my life. Well, I hadn’t until Fred died. But I might’ve lost you, too, Hermione, and I don’t know what I’d do now if I had. There’d be Fred’s funeral tomorrow and all those other people to bury, and then what? I mean, I still don’t know what comes after that, but you’re here so there’s something.”

 

He had said all he could and sat there, quietly holding her as he listened for a response. But she was silent. It was very unlike Hermione to remain quiet for so long; that is, unless she was studying, but that certainly wasn’t the case now. And she was so still, lying there on top of him, that he finally asked, “You’re not asleep there, are you?”

 

 

"No,” she laughed, “but I am starting to feel a bit cold.” He hadn’t noticed the spring chill in the room, but now he could feel it. There was no heat in the unoccupied house.

 

“Yeah, me, too.” He moved out from under her, slipping out of her as he did so. She sighed rather sadly. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. He reached for a tissue in which to wrap the spent condom before bending to pick up his pants.

 

“Oh, do we have to get dressed now?” she asked quietly. “Can’t we just get under the covers for a bit?”

 

Oh, how he wished they could stay here forever, but he knew the moment couldn’t last. “I’d like to,” he said, pulling on his pants and reaching for his jeans. Turning to face her, he saw the disappointment in her eyes. He was being insensitive, wasn’t he? He needed to reassure her, to be certain she knew that he wouldn’t stop loving her.

 

He knelt above her again and stroked her arm before lying down next to her. Holding her sweetly, he said, “I really would.” He kissed her forehead. “You know I would. But I reckon Mum’ll wonder where we are and she’ll want help getting ready for tomorrow. Being a bleeding slavedriver may be the only thing that keeps her from going barmy. And I’m kind of worried about George. He hasn’t said much. He’s never been this quiet.”

 

“Well, I’m sure no one quite knows what this is like for him,” Hermione said, rising from the bed as she reached for her bra and knickers.

 

Ron reckoned she was right, and with that, his mind returned to the Burrow and his family and all the sorrow waiting for them there. He couldn’t let go of it forever. But at least now he knew that she would be there whenever he did, even if just for moments here and there. He wouldn’t have to feel alone in it again; he would have Hermione to let go _with_. Somehow, there was a future for both of them—a future together—and _that_ was the difference between despair and hope.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
